St. Valentine

I don't know why but I'm sipping on another stale cup of coffee. In loneliness I make a friend out the stuff. Sometimes we feud though as the habit of running my fingers through my hair and massaging my face becomes a tic and my eyes gravitate into black gallows, my skin flushes red, and all hell breaks loose on summit of my head. Always room for one more cup though. I've become accustomed to even falling asleep on heavy doses. The heart beats rapidly until drowning out all other noise and sleep becomes me. Particular things have to fall into place for that to happen that: certain hours of the day must have been burned correctly with no late naps, or delayed wakings, and the reasonable limit of coffee consumption must be breached so as to send the patient into a catalytic reversal of symptoms, pushing the brain past normal wakeful vitality into a realm of lucid latency. It's something that happens by chance; if I shot for that particular phenomenon every night I'd never make it to sleep. I've heard somewhere people describe it as increasing the intensity of your dreaming state, but I think that misses the point entirely, at least for me. The joy I find out of it is that it simply makes me sleep furiously. It's as if I can condense whole sessions of deep sleep into a matter of an hour or two, and the morning after I have the strength of ten men. Not quite, but it is pleasurable. Tonight might be one of those nights. I'm not really thrilled about it, despite my elaborate description of the whole process just now. I'm more concerned about the proportionally worse backfire that can occur when the detailed elements of its creation don't align, and instead I'll spend the whole night twitching legs scratching eyebrows and sweating, gleaming at the anxiety condensing on the windowpane, god one hour two hour, death dawn makes its appearance and the rest of the day is delayed motor senses, white cream light obscuring the subtlety of faces, and the bitter loneliness of insomnia I'm so used to by now. My concern is well-founded. Fortunately though I sacrifice for things worth tending to now, like my life for instance. Action is a life-saver. The more occupied I am the less the sting of my past corrodes my battery heart. I cram every second with motion until I'm sick with time appeasement, nearly vomiting am vomiting abstractly out my eyes all the things I force myself to do as simple as taking out the trashing and counting pennies. Mostly it's in an effort to avoid the aforementioned terror of lying in bed, hopefully I'll be too exhausted to care.